Asphyxiation
by SerenNoir
Summary: Gaara's homocidal side. The reason why he's the way he is. Disturbing content. If it offends, don't read.


**Asphyxiation **

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**Author: shutupandsing**

**Rating: T**

**Comments: This story came at me while watching South Park. Yes, I know South Park has nothing to do with Naruto but hey, my mind works funny. What really brought this on was the robot announcer dude, Tom, from Toonami. During the previews for the next episode, he made the comment that Gaara was nuts. My first thought (naturally) was "Tom, I do not like you anymore." Cause Gaara's my G and you don't insult my G. Then I realized if you hardly ever watched the show or didn't know what happens later on then yes, a first glance at Gaara you would think he was some insane killer with a sandbox on his back. So this story is an actual portrayal of his personality aka his thirst for homicide. Not the usual fics where Gaara has some good deep inside and it surfaces at the end. This is his bipolar side, so to speak, only.**

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Stories like mine should never be told. They are filled with malice and betrayal, not suitable for the young or the weak of heart.

For I am a killer (_a murderer_), born in grief, raised in hate. I have no conscience (_for what is the purpose_) to tell me right from wrong. My purpose in this world is to slaughter, to exist to kill everyone other than myself. The bloodlust (_oh, the bitter sweet of it_) fuels me on; I thrive on the suffering of others at my own hand. Their screams of anguish that rent the night (_that was so silent once before_), makes me feel otherworldly, a magnificent out-of-body experience.

After each killing (_I see it more of an accomplishment_), I find myself surveying my handiwork (_beautiful works of art_), reveling in the feeling of completeness, being whole. Though there is that feeling of complete, I am still empty like the vacancy of my mind. I have so numbed myself against the world that at times I leave and don't come back for weeks. The only times I allow myself to feel are the times I sit and stare at the moon, on those silent rooftops on the balmiest of nights.

Those are the moments I reflect on my life (_if you can call it such_) and the crippling terrible pain I feel inside. Don't turn my words against me; I never regret what I've done. The pain comes from the fact that the limitless numbers that I shall slaughter (_and laugh as they lay bleeding_) will not quench my thirst for blood (_and existence_).

People talk, (_I know they do_) call me a freak (_and rightly so_) but they haven't been the victim just yet, they haven't seen the smirk I wear, haven't seen their blood splatter on my face so they cannot accuse me of the menial word, freak, until they lay there dying.

Once my sister (_I have family believe it or not though I will kill them in my own time_) brought a man home. He tried to befriend me (_ha_!), tried to dig through the exterior. I took him into the desert and spilled his insides on the glittering, moonlit sand. As he lay there gasping, his own blood trickling in my hair and down my spine, he whispered prayers and asked to be forgiven. I had mixed feelings.

Was I even capable of forgiveness and being forgiven? I ran into Temari on the way home. She saw the blood (_so vibrant red against my pale skin_) but said nothing. I heard her crying in bed later that night as I passed her closed door. I couldn't control the urge to cackle, my maniacal laughter echoing down the empty corridor, leaving behind the ghost of cruel apathy. I didn't wash my hair for a week.

Unlike the man who tried to befriend me, there are those that cross the street to avoid me sufficing with useless glares. They are the smart ones; they know when they are beaten. Do not think me conceited, there are those that are stronger than I, can defeat me easily. My purpose in life is not to be the top ninja (_far from it_), but to kill to exist (_exist to kill_).

Sometimes I have trouble remembering my earlier murders, though I wish I could, I'd give anything to feel that overwhelming feeling of evil again. I do remember when I was around 10, this particularly gruesome (_and yet so amazingly beautiful_) kill that my brother Kankuro found with me standing over my prize, grinning like a Cheshire cat. It was the first time I ever physically touched my sibling.

I had dipped my fingers in the dead man's blood (_I can still feel the warm wetness on my hands_) and had outlined my brother's paint. They (_to me_) looked much better painted in blood, more suitable for the name Sabaku. I remember the look of horror that crossed his features. I didn't understand, it was beautiful. Nevertheless, I've always had a closer relationship (_ironic isn't it_) with my brother. Because I see the glint of bloodlust that flashes in his eyes every time I kill unlike my sister who smirks but cringes in disgust. For that reason when it's my brother's turn to die, I'll make sure his death is quick and painless. It's the least I can do.

I'm not alone in my world though. The Leaf ninja, Sasuke Uchiha shares the same bond of hate, same eyes of indifference. His reflect vengeance, mine reflect detestment. Except he has friends while I have none (_though if I did, I would end up killing them_) so I have no qualms on his pending death.

There are times (_rare, they are_) that I yearn for the companionship of another human being. After all, though I'm lacking in social graces, I'm still human, at the core of me. I may not have all the normal feeling and emotions as others do but I feel nonetheless.

There was the one (_and only_) time that I had what you would call…a girlfriend (_what a dumb word…I have no friends_). She was a kunoichi in my village but always kept to herself. She was blind at birth but that didn't stop her from training. Her strength and ability surpassed my siblings, my sensei, even the Kazekage. But because of her disability (_I__saw it as a gift_) they wouldn't allow her to become Chuunin.

I was there, later that night, when she killed the proctors, savagely ripping their eyes from the sockets with her bare hands. Her words will forever be burned in my memory. "We are the same." I followed her into the desert, making sure I kept my distance. She still knew I was there, asked me why I followed her and if I was to kill her after what she had done.

Under normal circumstances, at this time the individuals (_my prey_) would be quivering with fear, shrinking back from my dark presence. She was different. Though she wasn't scared, she refused to acknowledge my presence. This upset me (_angered me_). After that night, I continued to slink off on my own, tracking her to her home far out in the desert, away from all traces of civilization. Each time I found her sitting on a sand dune overlooking the village.

And though I took all necessary precautions (_and some_) to hide my presence she still sensed I was there. Everything about her intrigued me, especially her eyes, the way they saw without actually seeing. They were of the lightest gray, like the calm before the storm. For some unknown reason (_even to me now_), I never wanted to kill her, didn't have the urge to spill her beautiful blood on the sand. She hardly ever talked (_which__was fine for me, I'm not exactly known for my conversational skills_).

I finally went and sat beside her on the sand, lying my gourd down next to me. "You smell of blood that's not your own. Do you feel regret after you kill?" I remained silent. "Neither do I. May I see you," she murmured. She was then in front of me, her fingertips grazing (_how I don't know, my sand should have stopped her_) feather touches along my face.

Where is the fear in this prey? She traveled down my front, tracing my own hand with her delicate fingers. "I must leave. They are looking for me and eventually their search will end here. Then they shall hunt me down. I wish for no one else to be involved in this. Gaara…you must kill me."

I groaned inwardly.

How was I to explain to her that for unknown (_infuriating_) reasons I couldn't bring myself to take her life? But I am a killer. As my sand enclosed her small body, she reached out with her hand. I laid my palm face down on hers. "Thank you," she whispered, her gray orbs (_stormy eyes_) staring off beyond me. I closed my hand around hers. Bloody sand splattered all over me. And like always, I did not regret it but reveled in the beautiful emotion that was death.

I walked away without a single tear in my eye. Did you really believe that I wouldn't kill her? Let her live, smuggle her off to a hidden village to hide? You really are naïve. I have been called many things: freak, insane, psycho, nut job, all true. I care not, for I sold my soul long ago. And the devil is laughing his ass off.

They call me … Gaara of the Desert.


End file.
